The Last Thing She Asked Me

was if I remembered the color.

not her name. not I love you. not take care of yourself.

the color.

>

I didn't understand.

she was in the hospital bed

machines beeping like a metronome

counting down

and she grabbed my wrist—

actually grabbed it, like she had strength left,

like she was still here—

and whispered:

do you remember the color of my garden?

I said yes. I lied. I said yes.

because you don't tell a dying woman

you weren't paying attention

to the color of her garden

for forty years.

>

she died three days later.

and the first thing I did

was go to her house.

walked straight to the garden.

and there was nothing.

just dirt. brown dirt. dead plants.

winter had come.

everything was gone.

and I realized:

she wasn't asking me if I remembered.

she was asking me

to remember

before it was too late.

>

I've spent six months

trying to see that garden

the way it was.

and here's what kills me:

I could describe her laugh.

I could tell you her recipe.

I could write a thousand lines

about missing her.

but I cannot—

cannot—

tell you the color of her flowers.

and she knew it.

in that moment,

with her body shutting down room by room,

she knew

that the thing we lose first

isn't the person.

it's the small details.

the way light hit their face.

the garden.

the color.

>

there are photographs.

but photographs lie.

they turn a garden

into a moment

frozen.

when what she wanted me to keep

was the feeling of the color.

the way it made me feel

standing there

watching her hands

in the dirt.

not the image.

and I lost that too.

>

I think about people

who lose everyone suddenly.

a car crash.

a message that comes too late.

no goodbye.

no last chance

to ask: what color was the love?

what shade was the time we had?

at least she grabbed my wrist

and said: remember this.

>

but I didn't.

and now

every garden I see

makes me think:

what color am I not seeing right now?

what detail

are the people I love

begging me to witness

before it's gone?

what shade of their face

am I scrolling past?

>

so this is my elegy.

not for her.

she wouldn't want that.

she'd want this:

if someone you love

is standing next to you right now—

stop reading.

go look at them.

notice the color.

notice how the light falls.

notice what their face looks like

when they're not trying to be remembered.

because the cruelest thing

about loving someone

is that you forget them

while they're still alive.

>

and when they're gone,

you spend the rest of your life

trying to see a garden

that's already dead.

trying to remember

a color

that was never yours to keep.

trying to answer a question

she already knew

you couldn't answer.

>

I don't remember the color of her garden, Mom.

but I remember

that you asked.

and I'm sorry

it took your dying

for me to understand

what you were really asking.

forgive me.

I'm looking now.